


I would burn here for years up in desire, desire

by janie_tangerine



Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E. (2015)
Genre: Anal Sex, BAMF Illya, Canon-Typical Violence, Captivity, Explicit Sexual Content, First Time (for the two of them), Kissing, M/M, Manhandling, Minor Character Death, Missions Gone Wrong, Napoleon is a Tease, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Post-Canon, Resolved Sexual Tension, Rough Sex, Strength Kink, Thank God We're Alive Sex, Wall Sex, or have they?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-11
Updated: 2019-04-11
Packaged: 2020-01-11 05:05:46
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,711
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18423447
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/janie_tangerine/pseuds/janie_tangerine
Summary: “Maybe somewhat calculated is not good enough,” Illya spits, and Napoleon can feel that he’s thrumming with adrenaline, and as much as his hands hurt right now, he reaches up, feeling blood flow back in his arms, and dares touching Illya’s neck — it’s so tense he thinks he could cut his fingers on it for a moment, but Illya doesn’t even flinch as he does, even if Napoleone is touching him in a fairly vulnerable spot, and —He smiles, weakly. He knows it’s a really poor effort, but now he also is shaking with adrenaline and he can’t — he can’t —“If it meant you’d live, it would have been,” he confesses, and maybe he should mind that they’re surrounded by dead people, but he can’t think about that, not when Illya is staring down at him, shaking his head slightly and moving closer, pushing him against the wall, but — gentler. Even if his wrists are still trembling all over.“And what about you?” He asks, his voice suddenly dropping lower.Or: in which a mission goes wrong first and not so much after.





	I would burn here for years up in desire, desire

**Author's Note:**

  * For [arysteia](https://archiveofourown.org/users/arysteia/gifts).



> Hello my dearest recipient! <3 first of all I was delighted that we matched on this fandom which I had been wanting to go back to for a while, so thanks for requesting it. ;) Secondly... I kind of couldn't pick in between *one* of your preferences so I tried to mix and match in between the pseudo-captivity sex, rough sex/manhandling/wall sex and the whole first time part of your request - happy smutswap to you!
> 
> Other than that: the title is from the Gaslight Anthem, I own nothing (too bad because we'd have had a sequel if I did) and I really hope it's to your taste. <3

Now: Napoleon _has_ had a bad feeling about this one mission since they were briefed.

Too bad that he had kept his mouth shut about it, figuring that maybe it was just old-fashioned paranoia. He _has_ had bad feelings before which then turned out inaccurate, and it’s not like in the CIA or the army people ever cared about what your own personal gut says before telling you to carry out an order, which means he hasn’t bothered to make them clear while working for UNCLE either… except that maybe he’s starting to think that he should learn.

 _If_ they survive this entire clusterfuck.

Rewind: according to Waverly’s intel, since no one in their organization had had their fill of Former Nazi Scientists Who Should Not Be Still On The Loose, of course _some_ other Former Nazi Scientist had resurfaced somewhere in Finland _and_ was willing to sell to the best buyer some plans for… well, not _nuclear technology_ , but definitely some kind of chemical weaponry that no one wants to be _sold to the best buyer_.

So, their target was going to Finland, pose as the best buyers, get rid of the plans and arrest the Former Nazi Scientist, and they should have done it _soon_.

Now, never mind that Napoleon is _really_ tired of Former Nazi Scientists — they were supposed to die with the Reich, not to be still around selling chemical warfare —, the fact that the entire thing was put together in two days meant that Gaby couldn’t come with them as she was on a solo op in South America and they left in a hurry with barely a suitcase made, and the intel was really not as thorough as it could have been, and _that_ already didn’t sit well with him.

The fact that the closer they got to _his_ motherland the less talkative Illya got, considering how he’s _not_ really too talkative in the first place, hadn’t done anything to make Napoleon feel any better about the entire set-up.

Too bad that it turns out he was right, because while it seemed like their attempt to present themselves as the possible buyers _had_ worked out, turns out that their guy apparently knew Napoleon was former CIA and still thinks he is, and the moment they walked inside the abandoned warehouse in the middle of a goddamned cold forest somewhere near Lake Bodom — which _already_ should have given him another clue that it was Not A Good Idea — they ended up with some ten goons jumping them, and as good as Illya is and as good as _he_ is, it was not the kind of fight they could win.

Okay, Illya took down some three of them before they managed to chain his wrists, and he managed one, but still, not good enough.

And now Illya _is_ chained to the wall while _he_ has one of the goons holding his arms tight enough that he’s sure he’d break one of them in a moment if he cared to, and he has _every_ single gun on him because Illya posed as his bodyguard so they think he’s currently not their problem.

 _Great_.

“Mr. Solo,” Former Nazi Scientist says as he moves closer, and Napoleon _really_ needs to do something about the fact that apparently people know _some_ of his allegiances, “did you _really_ presume I wouldn’t screen my potential buyers?”

“I suppose I overestimated myself,” he admits, hoping that he can think of _some_ way to get out of this mess. “Happens to the best of us.”

“Given your fame, it would not be the first time.”

Shit, Napoleon _really_ hates how the asshole is smiling. _Of course he is_.

Also, the other goon is about to break his damned wrist, given how _strongly_ he’s holding it. Shit. Like this, if he tries to get out of that hold, he’s just going to cause more damage. He tries to assess the situation. They got four, which means it’s _six_ goons left, one is behind him, the other five have guns on him and they seem ready to shoot.

 _Amazing_.

He dares glancing at his right. Illya is still chained to the wall, and he has a bruise on the right side of his face that won’t fade for a while, but he looks all right otherwise. There’s another room to the side.

If he manages to distract them _maybe_ Illya can somehow manage to get out of his bonds — he _can_ , he’s seen that happen — in time to at least get to the other room and destroy the plans.

“That said, I have a feeling that you might be… rusty, shall I say?”

“… And what suggests you such a thing?” Napoleon protests.

The man shakes his head. “I had no idea that you Americans tolerated… shall we say, sordid proclivities, but if it was the case, I would assume that you would _not_ bring with you whoever shares your bed in this kind of mission.”

 _What the_ —

“Come on, Mr. Solo. You have glanced your man’s way more than _mine_ since we chained him.”

 _Fuck._ That hit they gave him in the back of the head must have hurt more than he had figured, because he was sure he _hadn’t_ done any such thing, never mind that the man isn’t even wrong about the so-called _sordid proclivities_. Which of course, to Napoleon were never _sordid_ , and he’s never _not_ known that he found both men and women attractive and he’s certainly indulged in casual sex with men more than once in his life, but it wasn’t as if he was ever going to _tell_ Illya that not only he had been _looking_ at him, but more. Specifically, that it’s been months since Rome and he’s fairly sure that whatever the hell is his personal mess of feelings when it comes to _him_ is, because surely as hell if looking at someone turns your stomach upside down _all the time_ , if you want to kiss them every other moment, if the more you get to know them the more you feel like smiling just at seeing them in the morning, if they haven’t just been a _work partner_ since you trusted them with your life after knowing them for three days, then it’s hardly _platonic._ As far as Napoleon’s concerned, it’s definitely _nothing_ he’s ever felt for any other guy… nor for any other woman, to be honest.

This is certainly _not_ the time where he dwells on the fact that maybe he _should_ have told him at least out of honesty, since he has a feeling that his chances to do it are getting slimmer by the minute.

“Maybe I don’t think your face is too aesthetically pleasing,” Napoleon quips back, and he expects the punch in the kidneys coming from his back.

Fair. He’s handled worse.

“ _However_ ,” Napoleon goes on, figuring that at this point if they think he _cares_ about Illya that way they’re both fucked and that’s definitely _not_ how he wants this to go, “he’s for hire. He didn’t know who I am or who I worked for, so if you would be so kind to let him go, maybe we could see to come to an… understanding.”

“Mr. Solo, you cannot honestly expect us to when he has seen our faces and knows what business we trade in?”

Well, _fuck_.

“Hm,” Napoleon says, his breath coming short, “and you cannot expect me to let innocent people die because I admittedly botched this mission, can you?”

“Knowing your reputation I _might_ , but if you do think there is a way either of you leaves this place alive, I would very much like to hear it. For my own amusement.”

He gets another punch in the kidneys.

He spits blood.

He clears his throat again. “You seem to assume that my loyalty to the CIA is not for sale.”

 _That_ gets the asshole’s attention on him again.

“Do explain,” he says.

“You might trade in weaponry,” Napoleon goes on, “but I have enough clearance level to know a few pieces of information you might want to make use of. In between us, I never was happy to work for them. I also don’t like to bring people down with me if I botch missions. I’m not even saying you _don’t_ have to kill me after this entire mess is done. Just, you let him go, I tell you whatever you want, then you can do whatever you like with me. In between us, he doesn’t even understand English that much.”

“He _doesn’t_.”

“Nah,” Napoleon says. “I hired him in here. Admittedly, he _does_ speak very good Finnish. But the English is really poor. I didn’t _tell_ him what was the point, just that I needed protection.”

The man’s dark eyes stare into his, and Napoleon just hopes that his acting skills aren’t getting any rustier here.

“Hm,” he considers, “that’s a tempting offer, Mr. Solo. It seems a _bit_ too selfless coming from you, but I suppose that if the deal implies that your _guard_ has to go back to civilization on his own, maybe it could have interest.”

Obviously. Because not many people would manage to get back to civilization on their feet only, given that it’s snowing outside and it’s cold as fuck.

Still. Better than nothing, and if _someone_ could manage, Napoleon is sure that’d be Illya. “I’m sure he’d rather have _that_ over, well, sure death.”

“I think we might have a deal,” he _finally_ says, and then tells two of those goons to make sure Illya disappears into the snow before they come back and interrogate _him_ properly.

Napoleon kind of hopes that he has managed to free himself or that he can come up with something, but if it’s not the case —

He dares turn his head, meets Illya’s eyes as the goons drag him to his feet, and he’s fairly sure he’s rarely seen him _this_ murderous in his entire life, and he’s — well. He wishes this had gone differently, but there’s _no_ way he’s dragging Illya down if he can avoid it and if he can keep him alive, well, it’s not that hard to make that choice.

Certainly it’s less hard than telling him the truth, as sad as it sounds.

Прости _,_ he mouths as he stands, trusting Illya to _get it_ , and then he takes a breath, figuring that unless he comes up with _something_ there’s no way Illya will manage to come back after those two see him off in time to stop things —

Except that a moment later Illya makes a _noise_ he remembers having heard just that one time he lifted a goddamned fucking motorcycle in Italy, and he’s pulled on the chain hard enough to get it off the wall and he’s smashed it in _both_ of the goons’s faces, and while they both crash to the ground with their faces covered in blood, the guy holding Napoleon lets him go because he’s the closest and he probably wants to do _something_ about it, but Illya doesn’t let him and punches him in the face hard enough that his jaw cracks, and then he’s grabbed a gun off him and shot the other three dead with lethal efficiency before they could shoot _him_ , and then he’s staring at their guy with that same murderous stare while Napoleon catches his breath.

“ _What_ —” The man starts.

“Next time get intel on KGB, too,” Illya says, and then shoots him, too. _Then_ he finds another gun and finishes off the other ones that were still finding their bearings on the ground.

Then he lets the gun fall on the ground and turns to look at him, and Napoleon doesn’t think he’s ever seen such fire in the blue of his eyes, except maybe —

No.

No, it was nowhere near the same thing when he gave him back that watch. Not at all.

“Well,” he says when Illya doesn’t speak, “I see that I hadn’t calculated too badly.”

“You had not _done what_ ,” Illya almost snarls, coming closer.

Napoleon shrugs, suddenly realizing that Illya doesn’t seem too happy about how the plan turned out.

 _Plan_. It was barely one, but never mind that.

“Are you telling me,” Illya says, “that this was _not_ calculated risk?”

Napoleon decides that lying would be a fairly bad idea right now. “Honestly? I was hoping you’d manage to fight them off while I was distracting them or that you’d manage to come back if they escorted you out far enough, but neither worked out, well, at least you’d have lived, so — it was… _maybe_ somewhat calculated?”

 _That_ doesn’t seem to make Illya any happier — he takes a couple steps towards him, moving _closer_ , close enough that it’s beyond the usual comfort zone

(which became way smaller lately, Napoleon _noticed_ , but still —)

as he shakes his head, his eyes looking down into his with a disbelieving stare as he shakes his head and grabs Napoleon’s shoulders with hands shaking so wildly Napoleon almost jerks in surprise.

“ _Maybe somewhat calculated_ is not good enough,” Illya spits, and Napoleon can feel that he’s thrumming with adrenaline, and as much as his hands hurt right now, he reaches up, feeling blood flow back in his arms, and dares touching Illya’s neck — it’s so tense he thinks he could cut his fingers on it for a moment, but Illya doesn’t even flinch as he does, even if Napoleone is touching him in a fairly vulnerable spot, and —

He smiles, weakly. He knows it’s a really poor effort, but now _he_ also is shaking with adrenaline and he can’t — he _can’t_ —

“If it meant you’d live, it would have been,” he confesses, and maybe he should mind that they’re surrounded by dead people, but he can’t think about _that_ , not when Illya is staring down at him, shaking his head slightly and moving _closer_ , pushing him against the wall, but — gentler. Even if his wrists are still trembling all over.

“And what about _you_?” He asks, his voice suddenly dropping lower.

Napoleon _would_ have shrugged.

Except that Illya is keeping him so still that he can’t, and so he settles on trying to smile back up at him, even if he’s fairly sure it comes out shaky and insecure and nowhere near reassuring.

“Peril,” he wheezes, wondering how much adrenaline is going to keep _both_ of them propped up, and he shouldn’t be more than slightly turned on by how Illya has _not_ signs on him of what just went down bar a few splatters of blood on his shirt and chafed wrists, “do you want the honest truth?”

“ _Yes_ , if you please,” Illya hisses, still looking extremely distressed.

He wonders, _should I tell him_.

He moves his hands up to Illya’s face, keeping his touch light, feeling how his fingertips are trembling.

“Right _then_ ,” he admits, “I wasn’t really thinking about that. But if it came to only you surviving, it would have been… a more than acceptable outcome.”

There.

He said.

Illya keeps on staring down at him as if he can’t process what he just said or what he’s just implied, and Napoleon dares running his thumb across his cheekbones once, twice, feeling the stubble — he hasn’t managed to shave since leaving London, after all — and fuck, it would be so easy, _so easy_ to lean up and close the distance between them, but he can’t be sure of how Illya would take it and that’s not how he wants to ruin things, if —

“It would _not_ ,” Illya says, suddenly leaning down, fuck, it would really take nothing to close the distance now, and his grip on Napoleon’s shoulders has lessened a bit, just slightly, “have been.”

“Too bad,” he shakes his head. “It would have been _to me_ , Peril. Deal with it. I’ve never been famous for my self-preservation, I think, but if it consoles you I wouldn’t do it for just about anyone.”

For a moment, neither of them says anything, but then —

“Cowboy, you know what it is that you are?”

“… Enlighten me.”

“The reason _everyone_ knows you Americans are — most _fucking_ selfish nationality,” and Napoleon can’t even take a moment to feel surprised because he’s never heard Illya _cursing_ that openly in his entire life because then Illya has leaned down and his lips have crashed against Napoleon’s, _fast_ , hard, and whatever’s happening Napoleon’s _not_ going to look the gift horse in the mouth, he’s _not_ , not at all, and as he immediately opens up and kisses back he can immediately feel that Illya’s going all in and that if he’s ever kissed guys he doesn’t have much practice with it, but — but he’s doing that like he means it, and with so much urgency it almost hurts, in the _good_ way, of course, but —

But given how tense he feels against him, maybe —

He brings his hands fully to cup Illya’s cheeks, slowing the kiss down, moving his lips against Illya’s with more carefulness, his tongue finding Illya’s but without that same greed as before, and Illya falls into rhythm a moment later, his hands slightly steadier even if he still feels like he’s going to kiss him until neither of them has any air left to breathe anymore, and it only stops when it’s actually the damned case, and when Napoleon leans back, Illya’s eyes are almost feverish and he’s looking down at him like he can barely believe this happened.

“Well,” he breathes, “now I want to know what do you mean with _selfish_ , even if maybe I got a hint.”

“How can you _joke_ — you were _this_ close to dying,” Illya spits back.

“Told you,” he says again, “would’ve been worth it if it meant _you_ didn’t. And told you, _again_ , I don’t risk my life for people who aren’t worth it, and I have a feeling I’ve never — I think it’s the first time,” he admits, unable to keep it in.

“The _first time_?”

Well. They _kissed_. He figured it’s high time he admits it. “That I have anyone I _would_ risk my life for. And many other things, I guess, but —”

Illya makes _that_ noise at the back of his throat again and then he’s slammed Napoleon against the wall, kissing him _again_ , not as urgently but still fast and searing hot, his tongue plunging inside Napoleon’s mouth as if he wants to taste every crevice, and at _that_ point Napoleon decides that he doesn’t give a _fuck_ anymore — he throws his arms around Illya’s back, groaning when Illya’s hands move down to his legs and _lift him up_ as they keep on kissing, and he swallows every single moan Illya makes, and fuck but this is — he had dared imagine more than once how it’d have felt to finally kiss him, and he’s jerked himself off to the thought more than once, but his fantasies didn't account for how _hard_ Illya would kiss him or how it would feel to do it as Illya held him against the damned wall, nor for how _earnest_ Illya would have been in any of those actions, he can feel radiating it off him, and —

“I thought —” Illya says, tearing his mouth from Napoleon’s, sounding like he’s about to confess his deepest darkest secret or _something_ , his arms still holding him up, “they would _kill you_ , I could not —”

“Hey,” Napoleon says, his fingers going through Illya’s hair, once, twice, it might be short but not so much that he can’t mess it up, “hey, they didn’t.”

“No thanks to _you_ ,” Illya retorts, suddenly seeming to lose some urgency even if he’s still pressing him against the wall and Napoleon’s blood is running so hot he can barely _think_ , and —

Then he actually feels how _hard_ Illya is against his crotch, under those heavy trousers of his, and he swallows, his hands moving back up to Illya’s face, it’s not like he’ll let him fall.

“How long?” He asks, not bothering to hide how serious he is.

Illya stares back, considering it. “Long time,” he confesses, his forehead touching Napoleon’s. “But — I had not — _before_ , I could not. I never could. Even looking, that would have been — wrong. Not where I come from.”

“It’s _not_ wrong,” Napoleon says, quietly. “Or well, maybe for other people, but —”

“ _Not where I come from_ ,” Illya repeats, shaking his head ever so slightly. “I had not let myself in Rome, either. When I thought we would come back to — our organization.”

“And _after_?” Napoleon presses.

“After — I thought, until I am here, maybe I could. But I do not only want to look.”

“No?” Napoleon asks, allowing himself to smile a little. “Peril, believe me, I would be extremely disappointed if you only wanted to _look_ , as it is.”

“… You would — here? _Now_?”

Napoleon shakes his head again. “Believe me,” he says, “I had entirely less scruples than you, when it came to how long it took me to start _looking_.”

He can see Illya’s throat working up and down, fast, so fast —

“I have never —” He starts — “I could not, even if I did want —”

“Then it’s boh our luck that while my decadent, bourgeois country is hardly perfect, you _can_ actually be with other men, if you care to do it in safe places,” he smiles, and then he kisses Illya again, slow, taking his time as Illya lets his legs fall down to the ground. He kicks off his shoes as Illya does the same, and he can see Illya’s hands shaking as he undoes his belt and his trousers, and Napoleon decides that the moment they’re back in civilization and on a comfortable bed they’re going to do this _properly_ and on a nice, soft mattress, but right now he — he thinks he gets what Illya is aiming at, and fuck but he’s been _wanting_ for too long and they both could have died and —

The moment he sees Illya’s trousers and underwear fall to the ground along with his, he puts his arms around his neck again and Illya immediately lifts him up, _again_ , before pushing him against the wall more gently now, even if it’s still rough and he’s still kissing Napoleon like he has to take, take and _take_ as much as he can before he loses it, and Napoleon already knows he’s going to need to make sure he realizes that _no one_ is coming in between them right now or ever, he’ll fucking see to it if there is anything to be seen, but not _now_ —

He groans when his cock finds friction against Illya’s stomach as his legs wrap around Illya’s back, holding on tight, his nails grasping at Illya’s back, wondering he can keep this up, but from the way Illya’s arms are _not_ straining he thinks he actually _could_ and that sends blood flowing down all over again. Fuck, he hasn’t been this hard in a hell of a long time and the fact that Illya seems to have gotten the memo that at least for now no one is running after them, so he’s taking his time with his mouth, is not making things any easier here.

Not that Illya _isn’t_ feeling it, and Napoleon is just regretting he can’t look down for how tightly pressed to each other they are now, because wouldn’t he want to take a good look at how hard Illya _feels_ against his thigh right now? Hell, he _would_ , he would, but he figures there’ll be time for that.

 _Later_.

“I —” Illya wheezes, breaking the kiss, breathing in for air. “I _need_ —”

“What?” Napoleon prompts when he never finishes that sentence. “ _What_?”

“You almost _died_ ,” he says, again, instead of a straight answer, but Napoleon thinks he _knows_ , or he thinks he can begin to guess, can’t he?

“So what,” he says, “you need to — _have me_? So you know I’m not?”

The noise Illya makes is _definitely_ affirmative.

“Or,” Napoleon goes on, his hand going back to Illya’s hair, “maybe you’ve wanted it for a while?”

“And what if I did?” Illya says, the tone suddenly way less sure than before.

Napoleon smirks against the side of his head.

“No one says you can’t take what you want,” he says, fully aware that they have nothing to ease it, but who cares — he’s been through _way_ worse, and the way Illya kisses him again after, full and passionate and with all the fire that one can see behind his eyes but that he always keeps strictly coiled but not _now_ , and it's enough to make his stomach turn over on itself in the good way, and he loosens his legs’s hold on Illya’s hips enough that Illya can move back slightly — he’s still holding him up, _damn_ , and when Napoleon glances downwards he can see that he’s so hard it must hurt by now, too bad that they don’t have the time and they’re not on a bed because otherwise he’d take his time to show him exactly how long he’s spent fantasizing about having that dick in his mouth.

 _All in due time_.

“We have nothing —” Illya says, but Napoleon shakes his head.

“Just spit, it’s going to be fine. Come on, I’m not made of fucking glass and if you think you’re the only one who _needs_ here, you’re so, so _wrong_ —”

Illya shakes his head, spitting against his fingers, and he’s still holding him up against that wall with just one arm and Napoleon is about to _burst_ here, but he has to hold on, he _has_ to, and he groans in approval when Illya shoves a couple of fingers inside his ass just as he finds the right angle. He moves a leg higher, giving him better access, not giving a damn that Illya’s bloodied sweater is right over his own shirt, groaning when Illya moves his hand out, spits again and shoves those fingers in _deeper_ — he presses back against it, and it doesn’t matter that he hasn’t quite found the right spot yet when Illya’s fingers are _long_ and rough and they’re not pushing so strong that it hurts. Oh, it _does_ burn, but by the fourth time he’s done it Napoleon thinks that it’s more than enough, and he shakes his head when it seems like Illya wants to try for the fifth.

“It’s fine,” he says, “you can — just go with it.”

“Are you sure —”

“Peril, I need you in me I think _about as much_ as you need to just _do it already_ , so yes, I’m sure, I’m sure, just —”

Illya groans again, spits on his palm, takes a moment to touch himself as he slams Napoleon across the wall _harder_ , and then he’s lining up and Napoleon’s moving his legs so that he has better access as he pushes in, going sort of slow as his arm goes back to hold him up, and _fuck_ , it burns, of course it does, and Illya was already hard as a rock and that he’s certainly not _small_ , but no way he’s calling it off _now_ , not when Illya’s going slow, inch by inch, and damn it might burn but it’s the _good_ kind of. His blood is running so hot he can barely notice anything beyond Illya’s blue eyes with blown pupils staring right at him, and his hands are grasping at Illya’s shoulders tight enough that he surely feels it.

“Yes,” he moans as Illya makes his way in, “ _yes_ , go ahead, it’s fine —”

“Oh,” Illya says, pushing in deeper, almost there, “ _oh_ , this feels —”

“Good?” Napoleon presses, his legs curling tighter around Illya’s back. “I should hope so, I have a reputation.”

“How are you like _this_ ,” Illya moans, and then breathes in and gives the last push, burying himself inside him, and _fuck_ it burns and it stretches and it was almost agonizingly slow at times but it doesn’t matter because it feels _good_ , and he’s wanted it for _months_ and the moment Illya moves back and then _thrusts_ and hits the right spot, _finally_ , Napoleon doesn’t even bother trying to keep his mouth shut — he about screams Illya’s name as he fucks into him while keeping him still against that wall _and_ fuck his arms still haven’t shaken out of effort once, _how long_ can he even go on, he wonders, and he has a moment in which he imagines the two of them taking their time for an entire afternoon, pushing it so that he can find out _how long_ can Illya exactly make use of that strength of his, but for now he just cants his hips to meet Illya’s thrusts as much as he can, feeling him break him open in the best way, and he meets his thrusts as Illya goes faster and _faster_ , his mouth finding Napoleon’s again for a messy kiss. Napoleon bites down on Illya’s tongue as they part, lightly, and he feels Illya shudder as he thrusts _again_ , and he moves his head so his mouth can run along Illya’s neck — he’s still wearing that shirt, so he can’t bite as he’d have liked, maybe next time, _surely_ next time —, then he moves back up, tracing his jaw, feeling the blond stubble growing all over it before he kisses Illya again, and then he feels that Illya’s arms are trembling and he’s muttering in Russian all over, and he can see that his skin is flushed, and Napoleon knows that he must look the same if not _worse_.

He breathes in, slowing the next kiss down, his hands going to Illya’s cheeks, grasping them, angling his face so that they’re looking at each other —

“Are you close,” he doesn’t even bother asking, because he can feel it —

Illya murmurs his assent, slowing down, and _no_ , that wasn’t what he meant —

“Then _do it_ ,” Napoleon urges him, already picturing doing this in his London apartment, in a proper bed, with nice sheets and a comfortable mattress, maybe after making Illya work for it before he lets him pin Napoleon to the bed, now _that_ would be nice, maybe after doing it against the wall again because this is _hot_ and it turns him on down to his last cell, and maybe he could finally take the time to kiss every single scar on his partner’s body and they could just spend an entire day making up for lost time, no, make it a weekend, and _shit_ but just picturing it is really sending him _this_ close to the edge, and the moment Illya groans deep in his throat and gives a last, deep thrust, burying himself inside him and holding him so close he can barely breathe as he spills inside him, Napoleon follows suit, and _shit_ , did he come just from _this_ , he thinks for a moment before any residual pain is completely gone because it feels good, it feels glorious, his _entire damned body_ being flooded with a wave of pleasure so strong he’d be knocked off his feet if Illya wasn’t holding him against the damned wall still, shaking arms or not.

He finds Illya’s mouth _again_ as he spills all over Illya’s skin where his own cock has been trapped in the last minutes, not that he complains about it for one single moment, and Illya’s tongue meets his in a rush, even if it’s messy and nowhere near refined and it feels like they both want to turn each other inside out with how _hard_ they’re slamming their mouths against each other, and he doesn’t let his grip on Illya’s back go until he’s gasping for breath and he can feel Illya’s hands give out a bit — he lets his feet hit the ground as Illya slips out of him. His thighs are definitely damp with come, not that he cares, not when Illya’s shirt is drenched in it, and then he looks up at Illya again — he’s breathing hard, his cheeks flushed, his eyes blue and wide open and looking down at him like he can’t believe _this_ just happened.

Napoleon shakes his head and reaches up for Illya’s face again. One of them stops at the side of his neck, Napoleon’s thumb brushing against his Adam’s apple, which is working up and down so frantically, you would think he had just run a marathon.

Not too far from the truth, maybe.

“Tell you what,” he murmurs, his throat feeling constricted as he keeps on running his finger along Illya’s damp, sweaty skin. “It’s not like we can extract any of them. I say we get dressed, set this entire place on fire and go back with their car, ours would be useless. I mean, the plans are _here_ , so if we burn everything…”

“That is — sound,” Illya agrees. “Then?”

“Then,” Napoleon grins back, “we can get back to that safehouse, we can _talk_ about this, because as much as I usually don’t I _really_ don’t want to assume anything here, and then we can start catching up?” He grins. “Because _this_ was nowhere near the entirety of what I would have wanted to do with you.”

“I — yes,” Illya nods, once, twice, his hand reaching up tentatively to cover the one Napoleon has on his face. “First, we should talk. But I would — like that. Very much.”

“You only have to ask,” Napoleon grins, leaning up, his mouth meeting Illya’s again, but softer this time. “And while maybe we shouldn’t flaunt it around until we’re sure… we _can_ have this, if we’re careful. I heard you, before.”

“You might be maybe too sure of yourself,” Illya says tentatively, but he’s half-grinning. For his standards. Napoleon grins back _fully_.

“That’s what they pay me for, isn’t it?” He says, and then Illya has leaned down, his mouth crashing against Napoleon’s _again_.

Fine.

Maybe it’ll take them a while to actually burn this place down and get the hell out of Dodge —

But then again, no one’s running after them. They do have some time, and he’ll see that they will have more later.

He smiles into the kiss.

Maybe his _overall_ bad feeling about this damned mission had been wrong, in the end.

 

End.


End file.
